name/alias: may
age: 18+
pronouns: she/her
timezone: GMT+8 (but i’m asleep like,,, never so...Y e s)
discord: msg me nd i’ll tell *wink wink*
little trivia fact about you: i misspelled the band name (commes instead of comme) when i first sent my app in so like,, Very Dumb May. altho now that i think about it my character would probably make the same mistake once or twice :’-)
CHARACTER INFO
character name: aoyama ryōhei ryū (or just “ryuu” in the future,, much easier to type. tbh i’m clueless when it comes to keyboard shortcuts so idrk if there’s one for letters w/ macrons,, and i personally find it a pain to keep searching “u with bar” on google ASFDGD)
age: 24
zodiac sign: pisces (LMAOOOOOO)
group/band/position: drummer 4 comme les filles
info links or quick points about your character: profile + other short stuff here and bio (???) here (then there’s also that text post wc is rlly just an Edited version of the para sample i sent in,, basically ryuu and his ex-almost-boyfriend having a Moment)
as for plots hMMM
possiblY some1 who’s availed of his old “I’LL MAKE YOUR WORLD BETTER IN JUST ONE HOUR” service (like Yours for an Hour by Hic iacet Mori yes before rp i was a massive naruto fan gOD) but ofc this one doesnt have to be romantic
people who’ve known him since he first arrived in kr so they Know he’s totally different from the Hard and Edgy persona he’s currently fabricating (humor him or dON’t!)
drinking buddies, given the drinking culture (note: he cannot hold his liquor)
on tht note, a friend w/ a place he often crashes at, intentionally or unintentionally
tbh he’s kind of a freeloader; would love a friend/senior he bugs constantly to buy him drinks/food/basic necessities! there’s an underlying fear of not having enough money, as much as his parents still deposit in his acct; i hc he has a habit of checking his trust fund when he gets antsy for whatever reason. it’s like he’s living the middle-class nightmare of being one accident/hospitalization away from poverty when in truth it’s all mostly in his head.
also a friend he just likes hanging out with. i’d say w my whole chest that ryuu is a lot like a dog; he tends to follow people around, gets very lonely when left alone for an extended period of time. a very nice, very social dog. (though recently he’s been trying to kick it and go full Lone Wolf, pt of that dumb rockstar transformation.)
mb a fellow drummer he’s met in the scene! another hc i have is that he was just starting out when CLF was formed, and it’s possible the prospect of being in a band was what made him try drumming in the first place. cld be someone who’s been at it longer than he has, and now they have to endure his pestering for tips and pointers (compensation?? is a michelin-star-worthy omurice enough for you??)
that’s all i have for now (*/_＼) lmk if any of those ideas interests you, or if you have ideas of ur own!! my dms are open for plotting/ooc talk, and i can’t wait to get the ball rolling w ug! c h e e r s (*˘︶˘*).｡.:*♡
She drains the rest of her glass and relaxes against the arm of the couch, lounging waiting for the stress of the night’s earlier visitor to finally leave her.
“Don’t shave it off though, gives your face character. Anyways, what’s the plan are you crashing here tonight or what?”
Ryuu chuckles at the proposition, gesturing to her glass. "Wanna help me get started on the host thing, then? I'll pour your drinks whenever you like."
He stands up to make a show of his charms—pretending to be a dashing, suave host entertaining his nightly clientele—but it's mostly him flailing about with his hands in the air, making stupid faces, bowing to her in awkward angles. It’s dumb enough to make him laugh at himself, and he plops back down onto the cushions with a final huff. He swings a foot over Hyeju's leg, wiggling his toes.
"I'll be sure to consult with you from now on, whenever I get lost on the tumultuous path that is choosing a career," he shakes his fist for dramatic effect. "'M sure my parents would love to hear your ideas."
And Ryuu smiles absently as Hyeju's warmth seeps into his ankles, through the material of his pants (because yeah, okay, he liked having physical contact with her and all that, and maybe the body heat whatnot was just him imagining things, but whatever), until she comments on his facial hair and—and dammit, "God, you guys just won't let me live. Thanks for backhandedly boosting my ego and then trampling over it like it's nothing—it's like you think I don’t feel pain at all. I have feelings too, y'know!"
He's vaguely aware of the way he's acting—how he's pulling her pigtails, so to speak, albeit in a somewhat roundabout way, but following that train of thought would inevitably lead him to conclude that yes, okay, he's maaaybe feeling something more than platonic for Hyeju, and that's—
That's just fucking dangerous, is what it is, so—
(He imagines himself pouring a ton of lighter fluid over that muddled, troublesome braindump and tossing an open lighter to set it on fire. Watching as it burns to ashes and the flames fade into smoke, leaving nothing but soot and dust.)
He cannot think about that.
Still, it doesn't keep him from fastening her to the couch, shifting forward until he's almost sat across her lap, calves hanging over the armrest. "Guess you're camping out here. In the living room. With me," he props his chin on one hand, leaning close. “Though perhaps I could let you go if you pay me enough compliments. Maybe. Possibly."
Ryuu grins wildly. "I'd say you should give it a shot."
"One of my mom's friends' kids is getting married," Hyeju had announced about two weeks prior, and he didn't miss the way she spat the words like they personally offended her. Knowing how Mrs. Kim liked to gripe about marriage—and how her daughter absolutely-certainly-definitely must get married—that probably wasn't too far off.
So he tells her, "Yeah, okay," digging into his meal with a reminder that she shouldn't have bothered to wine and dine him for a favor, because he knew exactly what she was asking, and he did commit himself to playing her fake boyfriend. "I'll go with you."
That's how he finds himself mildly—just mildly—shitfaced at a grand reception, doing his damnedest not to hurl all over the ballroom floor and make a massive fool himself. It doesn't help that Ryuu's a new face, and people—especially people that ran in the same circles as Mrs. Kim—lived to poke and prod at new faces, like rabid hyenas prowling for meat. (For once, he's actually scared of Mrs. Kim saying he's so cute shecouldeathimrightup). He's waving off an offered conversation and champagne flute for the umpteenth time when he finally spots Hyeju, marching past a throng of whispering onlookers, looking positively—
Livid.
Oh.
And he would have asked her what happened, held her hand as she walked him through it, maybe talked her into getting some fresh air in the gardens—because god knew how badly he needed a breather, too—but he doesn't have much time to talk when she hoists him by the lapels of his tux and says, "I'm going to kiss you," like a declaration, and—well, he can't say no, because who was he, really, to deny her anything?
He just wanted to cheer her up.
"Yeah, okay."
The last thing he sees is the glassy gleam in her eyes and her wine-stained lips parting, ever so slightly, to touch with his own. It's not even an actual kiss; just a quick, full-mouthed peck—but it has him blank-struck and flushed from the neck up, face hovering mere inches from her own, staring. He can feel her breath on his skin, on his nose, and—he just. Licks at his bottom lip, thinks of how nice she had tasted, like fruit and wine and just—nice.
But then he feels sick again, and he—he at least has half the mind to clap a hand over his mouth and grab her by the wrists, tugging her to the nearest washroom to give up and empty his stomach into a toilet bowl.
-
"That was smart of you," Hyeju says from her spot in front of the minibar, rifling through its contents. "Now everyone thinks we got all hot and handsy in the toilets."
From the bed, beneath the covers, he pumps a fist in silent celebration—yay! But then he thinks...
"Hey," Ryuu pushes himself up on his elbows. "Just so you know, it wasn't kissing you that made me sick."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I just had one too many drinks. You know I'm bad with alcohol," that makes her laugh a little, and it puts him at ease. Still, he considers his next words carefully, rolling them around in his head, his mouth. "I—think you're really cute, Hyeju, so. Please don't think that."
She snorts in response. "Okay, Ryuu-chan," and he wonders, briefly, when he started to become so conscious of the way her hair cascaded past her shoulders, or how her dress flowed along the curve of her hips, swaying with each movement. He shakes himself internally. "Thanks."
"Um, okay," Get your head out of the fucking gutter, Aoyama, what the fuck. "Good night."
#
He kisses her all the time in front of her mom.
Mostly on the forehead, because it's easy to reach, but his favorite, by far, has to be that one time he kissed Hyeju on the cheek, and Mrs. Kim just dropped whatever it was in her hands in surprise.
Their little spectacles have Mrs. Kim gasping every time, and Ryuu, ever the charming, blushing boyfriend, always, always goes, "Oh, Mrs. Kim, I didn't see you there!" pretending to be the loving, chaste man she'd always wanted for her daughter—and Mrs. Kim loves it.
He plays it so damn well they eventually invite him to spend Chuseok with the rest of the family, just like Hyeju had warned him, and so it evolves into, "They're going to start expecting you for every holiday."
"That's not so bad, is it?" he holds her close as they lean against the door, highly suspecting Mrs. Kim to be listening in from the other side. Ryuu ducks to press a loud, smacking kiss to Hyeju's pursed lips, biting down his laughter when he hears fumbling outside. Gotcha. "I really don’t mind."
#
Hyeju asks him, "Ryuu-chan, do you want to sleep with me?" and it's so—it's so out of left field, so fucking out there and his mind goes wack and his heart threatens to burst right out of his fucking chest. Holy shit. Holy. Shit. Whatthefuck.
He was not expecting that.
"What—no," Ryuu blurts out, and it's only when her eyes go blank and her mouth turns tight that he realizes how that must have sounded, and he hurries to correct himself. "Um, what I meant was—"
Not that Hyeju gives him a chance to explain, because immediately she's pulling away from the couch, trying not to look like she'd been burned (and failing miserably). "Oh, no, it's fine. I mean, like, I was offering, but—I get it," and then she shrugs. "Good night."
#
She doesn't bring it up again. Which should have been good—great, even, but somehow—
Somehow it's just worse.
He still feels bad, like, really really embarrassed and gutted by the whole thing, because that's not—that's not what he had meant to say at all, she just...caught him off guard? Who even asks other people if they want to sleep with them?
(Kim Hyeju, apparently, does that. God. She's just—too much. Sometimes.)
It muddles their dynamic, too. Bad enough to make Mrs. Kim worried that they might break up, after years of being convinced that he and Hyeju were endgame. Like, nudge-nudge-wink-wink, when-are-you-two-going-to-marry-and-give-me-grandchildren type of convinced. Ryuu knows he's messing it up—if him flinching whenever Hyeju so much as brushes fingers with him wasn't telling enough—which is why he excuses himself "to get some fresh air."
It's code for "we need to talk," and this might be the first time ever that he's used it with Hyeju.
He whirls on her as soon as they're out of her mother's sight. "Look, Hyeju, I—" he stuffs his hands into his pockets, feeling cold and clammy. God, was he literally shaking in his boots right now? "I just—I need you to know that I—you just—I was just surprised, when you asked me last time, but I—"
And then he has to stop, really, because he can feel his heart hammering in his ribcage, and he wants to look at Hyeju—properly, this time, after days of being unable to meet her eyes. His shadow is blocking nearly half of her face, but the light that hits her brings out the brown of her irises, the pink of her lips, and—god, she's really pretty, yes, yes, of course, he would definitely sleep with her, why would she even have to ask—
"Consent is pretty damn important, Ryuu-chan," Hyeju scolds, but there's no bite in her tone, not at all, not when he can see the laughter in her eyes and the tremble of her mouth.
He said that out loud, huh?
"Yeah, you did," she sounds way too smug all of a sudden, and he would have said something in retort if she hadn't stood on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. His mind goes blank. "Ready to head back inside?"
To which he nods, dumbly, silently, and this time she leads with her hands wrapped around his. Mrs. Kim is visibly pleased by this, smiling big enough for Ryuu to wonder if her cheeks didn't hurt from it, but he doesn't mind when he gets to touch Hyeju again without recoiling or feeling awkward.
(There's a spark of something else, too, something entirely different, but he doesn't have the courage—or clarity of mind—to name what it is.)
“Thanks for being a good sport and staying,” Her gratitude goes unsaid at this point. He’s saved her a thousand times over from an otherwise awful tongue -lashing, there’s not enough thank yous in the world to get her point across. “You really could’ve left if you had wanted to, I think she would’ve understood. But you know she really likes you,” She takes a sip of her wine and sighs.
“I think you appeal to her girlish nature or something, y’know?”
Hyeju leaves his side with little more than a glance and it has him feeling cold, which is strange, because the rest of the apartment remains nice and toasty.
Then again, they had been pressed together for hours—shoulders brushing and fingers touching and just leaning, right against each other, into each other—so maybe it wasn't all that weird; it just so happens that there is that much difference between having a nice, warm body in his arms, and then not.
In other news, what's turning out to be really kind of weird is Ryuu wanting to ask if maybe—maybe Hyeju could sit with him again, like really sit with him, close enough to graze the tip of his nose over the back of her head and catch the smell of her hair as she curls into his chest; the very opposite of plopping down on the other side of the couch, a little ways from his reach, which is exactly what she does instead. Of course. Of course.
Fuck. This was too weird. It’s Hyeju, for god’s sake, he was supposed to be her friend and fake boyfriend and nothing more. He shouldn’t be thinking about how nice she smelled or how good it felt to have her in that weird, couple-y half-embrace, like he was meant to hold her like that all this time, all the time. It’s so fucking weird. Weirdweirdweird. Why was he even thinking these things.
He—thankfully—snaps out of it at the sound of her voice, taking the glass with little complaint, though he does shoot Hyeju a pained look over the rim. "Please, the pleasure is all mine," he says. "It's old ladies that really do it for my ego."
And he smiles for a good minute, too pleased with his own joke, but then the liquor hits his tongue and—blech, god, wine is a taste he has yet to acquire, possibly never. Ryuu's entire face twists into a frown.
"You get a kick out of watching me struggle with alcohol or something?" He sets it back down, glaring. "Is this the thanks I get for my services? How cruel, Hyeju!"
he wants to say all of that but he says none of it. instead, all that he returns him were four cutting words, timed perfectly with the pull of the elevator.
“I don’t really care.” it’s a lie, though.
Well. It's not like he was expecting much of a reply, but the curtness in Kiwoong's voice still stings. He manages an "O-kay then," and makes sure to draw out the o, just because.
Ryuu eyes the doors intently, willing them to slide open, willing hard until his jaw strains from the grit and blood rushes in his ears. It doesn't work, obviously—they still look very old and very much closed and that is really very frustrating—and it's all he can do not to slump against the wall and fall on his knees; a far cry from the positive tune he'd been singing just moments ago. He's working through the cycle.
Defeated, he moves to the back of the elevator, pressing himself tight into the corner. He tries humming to the bossa nova song crackling softly through the speakers, because it's distracting and he needs a distraction. He has stood here many times before—probably more times than he could ever manage or care to count—and yet that spot, that tiny stretch of ceiling just between the lights, has never seemed so interesting until today. He stares at it until brightness burns in the back of his eyelids and it hurts, so he focuses on the floor instead, blinking away the dancing spots in favor of the scuff marks that line his shoes.
He is trying very, very hard not to look anywhere near Kiwoong—which, he finds, is kind of hard to do in such a small space, and even harder when he's so goddamn curious about him. Like he's seeing him for the first time and wants to know him all over again.
So he tries—desperately—to not think about him at all.
He's barely tamped down the voice in his head that's chanting kiwoongkiwoongkiwoong like a prayer when something changes.
The music stops abruptly, and seconds later Ryuu's knees are buckling as the elevator comes to a sudden, stuttering halt. The lights flicker once, twice, before steadying back with a faint, electrical hum. He wonders briefly if it will hold until this is over.
And then it hits him with the force of a sledgehammer—this, the fact that he is here, in this elevator, with his ex-something, and said elevator is stuck, and said ex seems to hate his freaking guts—and he's back to cursing his rotten luck because fuck, how much worse can this get?
On second thought, scratch that. He really didn't want to know.
"Uh, Woo—Kiwoong," Ryuu tries to begin, only to wince when he catches himself, a little too late; he knows everyone calls him Woong, and that's how he's known him for years, but now the name feels too comfortable and too familiar when he knows they are anything but. Still, desperate times call for desperate measures, and he’s pretty sure this counts as a desperate time. He clears his throat. "What are the chances of you knowing how to get a stuck elevator unstuck?"
he sits close to the wall, making himself blend in as much as it is possible in the little crowd that stands close to him. ryuu is hitting the bar, gitae knows his drink of choice by heart, so he sends it to him before ryuu can even order. he smiles to himself when the bartender points at him from the center of the bar and raises his glass of beer in cheers when their eyes meet for the first time in years.
It was a nice enough night without the watered down liquor and suddenly-returned ghost from his past.
Granted, his sense of the "past" spanned from lunch to everything else prior, but Lee Gitae was a man he'd long since resigned to the collection of People He Preferred Not to See Ever Again. If he swaps his sweaty glass for the bottle of Sapporo (and he does, without hesitation), it's only out of politeness—and also practicality, because dammit, he's not one to turn down free stuff. Not in this economy.
Ryuu eyes the sea of bodies stretched between the two of them and weighs his options: he could enjoy his beer in peace, avoiding confrontation by staying put in his seat; or he could go and get it over with—he's not sure what "it" is supposed to entail, but he decides it's better than the nerve-wracking possibility of Gitae taking matters into his own hands and marching to the bar himself.
He should be on the attack. So he checks past the crowd, trying for cool and cocksure, but fumbles as soon as he realizes what he's wearing—the leather jacket Gitae bought for him years ago, comfortably worn with time. Also the most cared for item in his closet. Maybe. Arguably. The thought has him flushing from the neck up; he should have skipped the leather conditioner yesterday. He only hoped the club was dim enough to hide the burn in his cheeks.
Embarrassment does nothing to soothe his already frayed nerves—if anything, it only makes him more hostile. He greets him with a sneer and a "Fuck're you doing here?" and he knows this could warrant a punch to his face, but he didn't care. Part of him wanted Gitae to go for it, pummel him down, grab him by the throat, whatever. Leave him with bruises and aches to last for weeks; physical pains healed faster than emotional wounds, anyway. (Ryuu knows, because looking at him still hurts like hell.)
"Thanks for the beer, now do you have anything to actually say? Or should I keep reading the silence?"
It's not often he gets to say it, but tonight seemed to be going pretty well.
First, he finds spare change in one of his back pockets; he’d been sorting through dirty clothes, turning each piece inside out, preparing to load them in the washer. Rummaging his laundry basket for money was a habit that rarely yielded results, but here was proof that, if one kept at it long enough and looked hard enough and dug deep enough, they might just luck out and find a few extra bucks. And so Ryuu gets richer by thirteen thousand won in a matter of minutes. Not bad at all.
Second, the grocery store is stocked to the brim with every ingredient he needs. They're all fresh, too, and before he knows it he's crossed off all the items on his list. Dinner was at Sohee's tonight, and he was on cooking duty. There was something about doing chores and running errands that made him feel like a normal, well-functioning adult; maybe that was why he threw himself into it so wholly, to feel that maybe, just maybe, he was more than a twenty-four year old fuck-up without plans for the foreseeable future. Just everyday existential thoughts that hit as he debates the merits of canned tomatoes versus tomato sauce for pasta.
This is where his mind wanders as he steps into the lobby of the apartment building, nodding to the guards on duty. The elevators have always been on the slower side, lurching down the shafts with strange, metallic creaks. He's lucky to arrive at one that opens right away—the third good thing that has happened to him today. Ryuu was no believer, but it makes him consider offering a prayer.
Just as the doors begin to close, he hears the sound of feet pounding, someone crying "Hold the door!" from outside. So he does, because it’s basic elevator etiquette, if anything, and a good deed to repay the universe's kind workings. The man rushes past the opening in a quick flash, thanking him between heaving breaths.
And then he turns around.
Remember all that shit about luck and kindness?
Fucking fuck that.
It jars him how familiar he still is after a year, black hair and bright eyes and a charmed smile playing on his lips—the last quickly fading as recognition sets in. Yeah, he wants to say. The feeling is mutual. (Ironic, considering the reason things ended between the two of them.)
He feels his jaw drop, eyes wide with surprise, and he probably sounds a little dumb when he goes, "Oh," gaping like a fish, but it's all he can say with minimal risk of striking bad taste. It didn't seem appropriate to voice his thoughts—oh, it's the boy I used to kiss well into the wee hours of morning; oh, it's the boy whose heart I broke; oh, I want to get the fuck out of this elevator because I want to keep avoiding you. No, just no. He'd be taking salt and rubbing, kneading it into a raw, tender wound.
So he tries for, "Um, do you want me to get out?" but the words fall away as the doors shut with a final click.
Night shift was going fine-tastic until they came along.
That's how he interprets the look on the cashier's face when they enter the convenience store, at least; somewhere between very horrified and very weirded-out, but still mediated by ye olde service mandate, "the customer is always right," so he probably won't kick them out. Unless they cause a massive ruckus. But that hasn't happened yet (in the thirty seconds they've been here, yes, real A+ achievement), so Ryuu is hopeful.
The boy's shock, of course, is not at all surprising, considering the state they're in: Ryuu feels tired, sweaty, desperate for a shower. He's not sure how he looks—he was too busy lugging a certain someone through Hongdae to look in a mirror—but he must be far from pretty. Still, he reckons it's nothing compared to said someone, Gitae, who's barely on his feet and has to lean on Ryuu for support. There's no blood on him, and he doesn't seem to be bleeding anywhere, which is good, but there is a big red bruise forming across the curve of his cheek, and it looks bad. Like, really bad.
It's not everyday a badly injured man and his badly panicked friend drop by a 7-11, but here they are.
He thinks back on all the times he thought Gitae's muscles were a work of art—and it's true, his bro is built like a fucking classical statue—but now he's also convinced that, at some point, somehow, all that muscle must've been too much for his body; they've taken space in the place where his brain is supposed to be, and now his bro is also a Certified Meathead. Picking fights at clubs and shit, brawling five against one. Stupid as hell.
Suddenly, at his shoulder, Gitae shifts; he tries to stand, and Ryuu feels relieved, because he's alive. But then he opens his mouth, barking, "What're you looking at?!" at the poor cashier, and immediately relief turns to dread.
"I'm so sorry, please ignore him, he's an idiot," the words leave him in a single breath. "Do you have ice? And maybe an ice bag—um, sorry to trouble you, but if you could just get them for us, please..."
"No, no, it's fine," Cashier Boy walks in wide sidesteps to the aisles, eyes never leaving the pair of them. "Please make yourselves comfortable. I'll ring them up for you."
-
Ryuu figures they've put Cashier Boy through enough excitement for one night, so they settle on an outdoor table, where it should be easier to ignore them. Hopefully Cashier Boy can return to his regular late-night shift bliss. He seemed like a good kid.
Not at all like the one sitting in front of him.
"Fuck, that's cold."
Ryuu sighs. "Yeah, no shit. It's ice," he pushes the ice bag into Gitae's hand, which inadvertently puts more pressure on his cheek. It earns him a vicious hiss—bastard! "Deserved. Now hold it yourself."
Gitae does as he's told, but not without muttering a few choice words under his breath. None that Ryuu cares to try and hear anymore, much less comprehend. They haven't gone to the hospital ("Fuck hospitals—hospitals are for wusses..."), but so far so good, nothing torn or broken anywhere ("I know what a broken bone feels like—do you know what a broken bone feels like?"), except maybe Gitae's Man Ego. Judging by his symptoms—pissy disposition, dangerously hot temper, inability to control the stream of cuss words pouring from his mouth—Ryuu would say he's got a pretty bad case.
"I swear, next time I see those pricks, I'm gonna—"
"Jesus Christ, hyung, give it a rest already—" Gitae at least looks distracted by him using the Lord's name in vain, and Ryuu raises his hands in surrender. Pays well to know the patient. "Okay, but seriously. Let it go. If you have an aneurysm and die, you'll never see them again anyway."
That seems to get to him. Gitae drags a hand through his sweat-matted hair and groans, letting his weight fall onto the back of the chair. The metal sounds strained. "I'm near bursting with anger and I don't know how to work it off."
It's a stupid suggestion for two people who've literally just been to a bar. "Wanna smoke and get a stiff drink?" Not that he smokes, and he might as well wear a sign that says LIGHTEST LIGHTWEIGHT IN ALL OF SOUTH KOREA, but it's all Ryuu can offer.
It’s well past midnight and Kiwoong’s birthday candle has since burned to a stump. Ryuu sits with his back square against the couch, broiling beneath his layers, sweating through the stupor. Birthday boy slouches beside him, face-first on the coffee table, limbs loose and wavy. His lips are upturned in a dopey smile. He hums a song Ryuu cannot name.
He moves closer, making it so they sit shoulder-to-shoulder, laying his head next to Kiwoong’s. Ryuu traces the shape of him with his eyes: the curve of his back, rising and falling with each breath; the slope of his neck and the shadows of its hollows. His face, pale and soft in the moonlight, dark hair framing the cut of his cheeks. And his lips—
Kiwoong opens his eyes. No gentle blinking, no lashes fluttering; just a snapping, sudden flip of the lids. Ryuu wonders if he’d known he was staring. (Judging by his godawful, self-satisfied smirk, he probably did. Stupid handsome prick.) He stretches over the table, yawning wide and big, and Ryuu thrusts a finger in his mouth, all the way to the back. Kiwoong chokes.
“Hey!” Revenge comes in rapid finger-jabs to his sides, and his attacks are relentless—by the end of it Ryuu is breathless with laughter, cheeks straining and belly aching. “Serves you right, asshole.”
“You don’t mean that, baby,” he half-chuckles, half-croons into Kiwoong’s neck, snickering when he feels him gulp against his forehead. Easy boy. Ryuu pulls back to meet his gaze. “You still haven’t told me what you want for your birthday.”
Kiwoong frowns. “You already bought cake and rum.”
“Those don’t count,” he touches the inside of Kiwoong’s wrist, slender and strong, feeling his pulse. “There’s gotta be something else.”
He hums in thought—even wears a cartoonish thinking face, finger to his chin and all, and it’s dumb enough to make Ryuu laugh (again; Kiwoong was too good at this). Still, his eyes shine with certainty. “I want a kiss.”
Ryuu feels the protest rise on his tongue—we do that everyday, pick again—but stops short beneath the weight of Kiwoong’s gaze, sharp and sure with desire. Oh. It rises within him, too, that familiar heat, tugging at his senses, setting him aflame. His nerves are singing. His skin is raw as a burn.
He rises to his knees. Cups one hand around Kiwoong’s neck, thumb grazing the column of his throat, tender. He peers down into his eyes, black and bright with want. “Do you want me to kiss you?” Sayyessayyessayyes.
“No.”
He jerks, suddenly—a single word and yet he sobers completely. Red rises along his nape, spreading to his cheeks, telltale signs of embarrassment. He’s about to let go—standupapologizeleaveandnevercomebackgoddammit—when Kiwoong grabs him by the elbows, pressing forward. “I want to kiss you.”
He exhales. “Bastard,” a breath of relief, and they both laugh. He returns to tightening his hold. Kiwoong reacts immediately, spine going ramrod straight. “Too bad, then.”
The last thing he sees is Kiwoong’s mouth opening under his; it is not a pretty kiss, nor does he intend it to be, and their teeth knock into each other while they shift across the floor. Kiwoong slips a hand under his clothes; Ryuu moans into him.
He draws him closer, drinks from him with a thirst that only swells with each touch—hands on his pants, his hips, down, down—until Kiwoong gasps and Ryuu stops to look at him; finds that he kind of resembles a fish with his cheeks squished like this.
“Did I hurt you?” He adjusts his grip, but Kiwoong shakes his head, eager as ever. I liked it.
Then they laugh (again, always) and kiss (always, again); mouths, hands, thighs, everywhere. Touches roundabout each other’s bodies, back and forth, in and out. Over and over. He tastes like sweat and strawberries, Ryuu thinks, sealing his lips on Kiwoong’s forehead; spent and sated and fast asleep.
“How should I address you?” He asks, rubbing at his chin, seemingly deep in thought. “Noona? Or Hyeju-neesan—” she cringes visibly into her drink. “Maybe not.”
“Just call me Hyeju,” she fishes a can of beer from the fridge and tosses it to him. “Honorifics make me feel old.”
Ryuu clears his throat, tests her name on his tongue. Hyeju.
(Feels like it’ll be there for a long time.)
#
“Hyeju, they’re staring.”
She turns toward the restaurant, but Ryuu holds her in place, hands firm on her shoulders. Don’t look!
Hyeju sighs. “Ignore them.”
“I have a better idea,” he says. “You mind if I hold your hand?”
She narrows her eyes, and for a moment he thinks he may have been too forward. He’s about to apologize when Hyeju slips her hand into his own, fingers searching along the lines of his palm, surprisingly gentle. Ryuu grins.
“Why are you smiling like that,” her eyes flit back and forth between their hands and his face. “Don’t tell me you actually have a crush on me.”
He snorts, giving a little squeeze. “Even if I did, I know I’m not your type.”
#
His ears are filled with the sound of his teeth chewing diligently on dumplings (they taste so fucking good he almost moans in the booth) and Hyeju’s mother droning-slash-doting, as she often did during dinner (the doting is mostly reserved for him; it’s Hyeju that gets stuck with the droning, a never-ending litany on how she should live her life, as decided by Mrs. Kim).
“You’re so lucky, Hyeju, you should be thankful I found such a great guy for you,” she says. Said daughter looks barely alive next to him, picking idly at her food. Parents with a twisted sense of gratitude aren’t very appetizing. He swallows and breaks into a smile.
“I should be the one thanking you, Mrs. Kim,” Ryuu reaches over the table to take the old woman’s hands in his. “Hyeju is very good to me. I’m lucky to have a girlfriend like her. Thank you for introducing us to each other.”
It’s not a total lie. There’s a pregnant pause as he eases back into his seat, Mrs. Kim with her slack jaw and her daughter staring, boring holes into the side of Ryuu’s head. He doesn’t look at Hyeju, but he does replenish her plate with dumplings. “Eat this, it’s really good.”
#
Dinner with the Kims is always followed by drinks in her apartment. Ryuu is curled up on the couch, hands damp with the sweat of his beer can, still half full with liquor. He watches as Hyeju cleans another shot of soju.
“I’ve always wondered how your mother would sound in written dialogue,” he says. “When she speaks, I just think, ‘Where should I put the punctuations? Should I use a period here? Or maybe a comma.’ Things like that.”
“I can’t believe you’re drunk from a few sips of beer,” is her response, to which he protests: Nooooo, I’m not drunk, I’m not drunk! but Hyeju only laughs.
“Commas are your best bet, I think.”
#
(“That’s a lot of blue lines,” she remarks, peering at Ryuu’s screen.
He hums. “MS Word says your mother has way too many run-ons.”)
#
Hyeju wakes up to a warm meal and a note on the table.
had to cover for friend at work. eat up!
It’s a traditional breakfast: nattō rice, grilled fish, miso soup, pickled vegetables. She’d made the same set for him once before, after he blacked out drunk the day they first met (in her defense, she didn’t know he was such a lightweight). Hyeju wonders if this was him paying her back.
p.s. i’ll drop by later, too. ur fridge is empty af. i’m buying groceries.
He’s downing shots by the dozen, old men cheering all around, the way they would in a cockpit. More, more, more! their roars fill every nook and cranny, swollen to the brim, near overflowing. It’s an effective way to goad him on; he likes the attention.
Somebody taps him on the shoulder. A firm and gentle hand. He raises his head to look at what he assumes is a person, but he’s not entirely sure. They could have been an animal for all he knew; he sees only a faint blob with one...limb stretched toward him. Could very well be an octopus. He tries for a smile. “I’m not drunk,” the words ring clear in his head but they are liquid in his mouth. He thinks of guzzling them down along with the soju. “I swear I’m not drunk.”
“I think you’ve had enough, sir,” he thinks they say, vaguely concerned. He guffaws.
“Look, Mister—or Miss? Whatever—Octopus, I’m sober as a judge. So you can crawl back to the sea, or something, I don’t know. Just let me drink in peace.”
“Sir, I really think you should—”
Sickness rises fast as a flood. His lips have barely wrapped around a syllable when the vomit escapes, a great stream of broken-down rice and curry spouting out of his half-open mouth. The men are roaring still, this time with laughter, but he doesn’t feel bad. He’s right along with them despite the sting in his eyes and the burn in his throat, and he goes until his belly aches.
#
His morning starts in an apartment that isn’t his. Ryuu’s head aches with the force of a thousand beating drums, pounding all at once; he tries not to scream.
-
hello,
i’m sohee, the bartender from last night (though mr./ms. octopus might ring more bells).
there’s Advil and a glass of water on the table + my signature hangover cure in the fridge. you should try it! boss says hospitality is what keeps the customers coming—hopefully next time you don’t barf all over the counter.
have a nice day!
#
For lack of better word, Sohee’s cure tastes like shit. It takes all his willpower not to retch as he chugs it down, but by the time he finishes all traces of his hangover are gone and he feels like a goddamn champion. He wonders if that was the intended effect.
-
Hi,
My deepest apologies for imposing on you like this. I woke up smelling a bit like vomit, so I imagine it must have been a hard night for you. Again, my deepest apologies.
Please accept this token as a sign of my regret. I sincerely hope I never cause you so much trouble again.
Aoyama Ryuu
#
Ryuu swings by the bar a few weeks later.
The winter season warrants warm, heavily padded clothing, but he takes it up a notch, wearing enough layers to turn his walk into half-striding, half-waddling steps, looking more mascot than human. (He even wears black in an attempt to be less conspicuous; needless to say it doesn’t work as he’d hoped.) It’s no surprise Sohee looks about ready to call for help when she sees him approaching her in the back alley: a strange, slow-paced killer out to get her.
“Wait—no—it’s me!” He gasps as he emerges from the coats. Her face goes through a myriad of expressions: first surprise, then confusion, then recognition and relief. “Aoyama Ryuu?”
“You asking me?” She says, amused, and his ears flush with embarrassment. “What are you doing here?”
“I was hoping to make it up to you—I left some food last time, I didn’t know what you liked so I went with what I thought were safe choices—but I think that’s hardly enough, y’know, considering—”
“—Okay,” he could hear the laughter in her voice. “My shift’s over in ten. You mind waiting for a bit?”
He shakes his head. No, I don’t mind.
#
Their friendship comes all at once after that: late-night trips to the convenience store, warming hands and filling stomachs with steaming bowls of spicy ramyeon. Beer or soju or both after work, drinking themselves stupid, but not so much as to mistake her for a sea creature again. There’s a lot of that, too, the inside jokes, the meaningful glances (take-a-look-at-this-guy gets used nearly every night he hangs by the bar); a secret language shared between kindred spirits.
#
He’s drunken himself into a stupor once again; this time he comes down with a fever, and Sohee has him confined to her bed, worrying about like a mother hen.
“It’s because I drank too much,” he explains, and she glares in response. “Don’t look at me like that—it’s you I’m always drinking with!”
“But I know my limits,” she forces the spoon a little too hard, clinking against his teeth. She mutters an apology as he groans.
“You shouldn’t frown so much. You want to get wrinkles at twenty-three?” She snarls. I’m the same age as you! “I’m joking, I’m joking!”
Sohee whispers under her breath—something about him being an ungrateful bastard, it’s not like she tries to keep him from hearing—and he laughs around the next spoonful.
He does try to look sincere when he speaks. “I’m grateful, Sohee-yah.”
Her lips curl into the slightest smile, but it’s gone in the blink of an eye. “Open up and eat, stupid.”
#
Omurice becomes a breakfast staple. He cooks it so often he worries she might get sick of all the damn eggs. But every time he asks—and he always, always asks—her eyes light up at the suggestion.
“You don’t get tired of omurice, Sohee-yah?” She shakes her head no, too busy inhaling the meal in front of her. Ryuu watches her eat the plate clean; not one grain of rice left unconsumed.
“What can I say, you’re a great cook,” Sohee brings a hand down to his head, but he dodges just in time, clicking his tongue. “You gonna finish that or what?”
“I will, I’m just—I can’t believe you like it that much.”
She snorts, as if the answer should come easy, obvious to anyone. “I like it because it’s from you,” she has her back turned to him as she speaks, but he can feel the gravity of her words, pressing down on his heart. (He likes the weight of it.) “I like it because you made it for me.”
They sat together on the lawn, bellies filled with rice and teriyaki chicken, hands and mouths still sticky with sauce. Wind rose with the smell of dew and soil, coaxing tree leaves and bushes to a rustling chorus. Spring in Tokyo.
“Should I ask my parents to add you to the family register?”
He didn’t mean it, of course, but Ryōhei whipped toward him so quickly, looked at him with such hope and earnestness that it made him feel guilty. Shoulda kept his mouth shut. Takumi scratched his head. “'s a joke, man.”
Ryōhei laughed, but it sounded hollow to his ears. A withering half-laugh.
He’d been staying at their house three days and four nights now—his parents were fond of Ryōhei, his childhood friend, his best friend, always asking after him, sometimes packing extra food for them to share on school days. His mother even suggested they buy him a new futon. “In case you decide to stay longer, Ryōhei-kun,” she’d said, idling by the doorway, car keys in hand. Just say the word.
“I knew that.” He moved to punch Takumi in the shoulder, a limp, halfhearted jab, caught easily in Takumi’s palms. Too easy. He pushed back, kicked at his knees, hoping for a reaction, but all that came was a half-smile. On a normal day Ryōhei would be fighting twice as hard, meeting him blow-for-blow, and they’d push and kick until adults came to stop the ruckus. But it wasn’t a normal day—he wasn’t even sure what “normal” meant anymore—and where Ryōhei’s usual grin should be was a measly curve of the lips, heavy and reluctant.
(He didn’t want his friend in halves. He wanted him whole.)
What you want isn’t always what you need. He’d heard it often as a child, less and less as he grew into himself, a right and proper man (kind of, almost). Looking at his friend, though, he felt smaller than ever: immature, inadequate. Ryōhei may have wanted his company, but Takumi wondered if he was what he really needed.
(He wanted to be. He really, really did.)
Takumi called his name—Hey, Ryō—as he eased down on his back, flat on the grass. He knew Ryōhei was looking at him; could tell by the sound of his head swishing to the side, long hair flopping over his brows, his breath held in wait. “I know I’m not good with feelings and all that, so what I’m about to say might suck, but I’m thinking you’re here because you trust me, and I want to be a good friend to you, so.
“Do what makes you happy. I don’t know what that means to you now, but you should do what makes you happy. Get rid of the things that make you unhappy. It’s like—remember in second grade, when Naruse was pretending to be your friend just to take your pencils and stuff—”
“Yeah—”
“—Yeah,” he kept going. No room for pause, not even for a breath. “So I told you to stay away from him, because that’s not how friends should be, right? And then he got pissed, and you stopped being friends, but at least no one took your stuff anymore, and that was a good thing.”
“Yeah.”
“So that’s what I’m saying, y’know? I don’t wanna badmouth your family—they’re your family, after all—but I hope you get what I’m—”
Then Ryōhei laughed—this time a full-on, belly-aching laugh, rattling loud from the bottom of his throat, and Takumi’s focus was broken. He wondered at the sound. “Yeah, I got it.” Ryōhei kept his gaze firm on his feet, but the rise of his cheeks let Takumi know he was smiling, gladness bright beneath the cover of his eyelids. His brain told him it was a happy moment, a good moment, and he thought suddenly that he might cry.
Ryōhei laid beside him, their shoulders pressing together. So close, Takumi could smell the scent of him: the salt of clean sweat, the freshness of laundry detergent. Warmth surged into him from where their forearms touched. "Thanks, man."
